Home Invasion
by maycontaincocoa
Summary: Stiles probably had the supernaturals to thank, for honing his instincts to the point where the sound of something whistling through the air had him ducking to avoid being brained with a bat. His bat. His baby that he keeps by his bedroom door, ready for whenever he heads out to deal with psychotic-supernatural-being-of-the-week. (T: For Foul Language and Violence.)


Stiles probably had the supernaturals to thank, for honing his instincts to the point where the sound of something whistling through the air had him ducking to avoid being brained with a bat. _His_ bat. His baby that he keeps by his bedroom door, ready for whenever he heads out to deal with psychotic-supernatural-being-of-the-week.

The aluminium met the doorframe with a dull _clunk!_ and Stiles made a mental note to check it over for dents or chipped off paint. Not that he'd actually do anything to fix it; it's just damage assessment, really.

But that's not important right now. Bat. Attempted braining. Violent hostile. _Focus, Stiles. _Threat now, damage assessment later.

Stiles went for the bat, and the two of them wrestled for it until the man changed tactics and shoved back to the wall, hard. Pushing the bat to Stiles' throat in an attempt to choke him. He could smell the wolfsbane on it, the man probably would never know that he had tried to brain a human with something that had dealt with its fair share of supernatural beings. It was resting on his collar for now, the pressure wasn't unbearable and there was no broken bones or cut-off air supply yet, so that is a 'so far so good' in his book.

Stiles had a good look at the man then, he who had invaded his home, his sanctuary. He thought of how his mum had stood in the threshold whenever she tried to convince her son to go to sleep. He thought of how Scott would poke his head in, holding onto the games he had brought over for them to play. He thought of his dad and how he'd lean against the frame as he made small talk with his son, before heading out for work. _His dad._

Fuck. What if it had been his dad that had got home first? What if he had decided to go to Scott's and not return until the next day? What if his dad had left work, tired from the long hours and guard completely let down, only to come home to this pathetic excuse of a man waiting for him with _his _bat?

"You'd think," the man grunted, "that the Sheriff's house would have better locks on his windows."

Stiles glared at him from where he was pinned, arms straining from keeping the man off him. Fucker thinks he's got the upper hand, but Stiles knew from experience that a standstill could go either way in an instant. He just needs to wait for the right moment...

"What the fuck do you want?" Stiles bared his teeth. Sheesh, he's been spending way too much time with the werewolves. Come to think of it, does he have anymore human friends left? Danny maybe?

The man grinned. If Stiles hadn't already faced feral werewolves, malevolent fairies, blood lusting vampires and that one, stupid troll, that grin would have sent a chill down his gut to turn his knees into jelly; but now, it just made him pissed.

"Your daddy-dearest ruined my life. Because of him, I lost my wife and my kids, my job, my home, and even my own family abandoned me. I lost everything because of him." There was a harsh glint in his eye, one that Stiles has seen in men and other beings that had gone mad with desperation.

"So you'd thought you'd come here and take something of his as well?"

The man's eyes widened a fraction in surprise, before narrowing with intent. His wild grin widened to accompany it. "That is the plan, yes."

Stiles continued to glare at his assailant, who begun to lose his cool from the absence of fear from his victim. The teen waited until the seed of doubt was planted firmly in the man's head, before he growled.

"What you did to warrant jail time was not my dad's fault. I don't what it was, and frankly, I don't care. But what I do know for sure is that it wasn't personal, it wasn't fate; it was inevitability. You came into my home with the intent to hurt my dad by hurting me for revenge that you don't even deserve to have. I am the Sheriff's son. You think I don't know what that means? That I walk around with a Sheriff-sized target painted on my head and that I didn't know about it? You're a threat to those whom I love, and you're in _my _house, on _my _territory, _on my turf_.

"Dude," Stiles scoffed. The abrupt switch from threat to mockery clearly had the man completely derailed. This is Stiles' own special blend of mental warfare, his special cocktail of mindfuckery.

"You'd best believe I'm going to deal with you."

Stiles pushed himself off the wall and to the side. The man was still pushing, and he just went with the flow, raised a foot and folded his other knee to fall backwards. He pulled the man down with him, on him, and then over him. His raised foot rested perfectly on the man's hip as leverage and Stiles sent him flying over him in an arc Stiles knew to be perfect.

He wasn't kidding when he had assured the man that he had the advantage in fight in his home. He grew up here, lived here for all his life. He knows where everything was, each crack in the paint, each creaky step, each patched up leak in the roof. He damn well knows where the staircase was. The staircase which the man was now tumbling down now.

Stiles leapt up and darted into his room, his bat now tucked under his arm (the man had let it go when he was thrown), and snatched up a few heavy-duty zip ties (already in a loose loop for easy use) from his table. He was back out in a flash, flying down the stairs while slipping the loose ties onto his wrists and gripping the bat firmly in his hands, where it truly belonged.

The man was already recovered from his fall, left hand cradled, hopefully sprained, and left side protected, he had no trouble breathing so it's likely just bruised. All sorts of curses were spilling out of his mouth, but the words just flew right past Stiles. He's heard better curses, ones more witty and a lot more scary. He's even made some of his own, but not all of them apply to humans.

He drew out a pocketknife, which he flicked open.

Stiles spared the blade a glance and tightened his grip on his bat. He didn't raise it or take a stance though, just stood where he was, loose-limbed. Armed with the bat, Stiles could easily win a knife fight, he knew that, and he knew the man knew that. And wasn't there a saying that went "desperate times call for desperate measures"?

Stiles didn't want the man desperate.

Because people do all sorts of unbelievable shit when they are desperate. Stiles should know, he's been desperate on many occasions himself, far too many for his liking. Far too many for one lifetime.

Focus, Stiles.

He made an effort to look as harmless as possible. If the man felt that he had to do something drastic to win this fight, well, Stiles didn't like anomalies. He wants him to be cocky, to be confident, to think he can still pull this off.

Because then, he'll be too damn easy to predict.

Stiles hunched his shoulders, readjusted his grip on his bat and his eyes darted around, looking for something. He projected a sense of protectiveness, a wariness, weakness, and insecurity.

The man bought it. Hook, line and sinker.

He lunged, thrusting the knife forward, and Stiles easily stepped aside and brought the bat down on his wrist. There was a crack and the man screamed, dropping the knife and stumbling, now holding both his hands close to his chest.

Without any hesitation, Stiles swung the bat again and knocked the guy's knees out, sending him sprawled on the floor. He dropped the bat and leapt onto him before he could get up. Planting a knee firmly on his back to immobilise him, Stiles wrenched the man's hands behind him, ignoring his cries of pain and zip-tied them together. He did the same with his feet while the man was still winded from the pain. And then, just to be sure, because Murphy's Law, Stiles then secured the zip-ties around his wrists and ankles together, turning him into a weird yoga pose gone wrong.

Stiles stepped back and dragged a hand down his face.

"I'm too tired for this shit." He dug into his pockets, pulled out his phone, and hit speed dial.

The phone rang twice before his father answered it.

"Son, what are you doing calling at this hour?"

"Well," Stiles leaned against the back of the couch, free hand rubbing the back of his neck as he tried to think of how to phrase this. Dammit, he should have thought about it first before making the call.

"What is it? What happened?" There was a touch of panic in his voice now, and Stiles has no doubt that all the worst case scenarios are beginning to play in his father's head.

Shit, he should really have thought this through first.

"Nothing too serious. Well, it is, kinda. But it's been dealt with. No biggie. Everything's fine. Nobody's hurt... Too badly."

"_Stiles._"

"Some guy broke into our house." Stiles said in a rush. "I've got him tied up, now. So, really, everything's fine. Just... call it in and pick him up?"

His father sighed, and Stiles could picture him pinching the bridge of his nose or kneading a knuckle into his temple. "Lunatic?" He asked. Now that he was in the know about the supernatural happenings in Beacon Hills, Stiles had created a set of codes they could use. In this case, 'lunatic' was code for werewolf.

"Nope." Stiles glanced at the man writhing on their living room floor. "Just your everyday breaking-and-entering."

"Okay," Stiles could feel the knot of unease leaving his father's shoulders. "Okay." He said again, and this time he sounded surer. Less like his dad and more like Beacon Hills' Sheriff. "I'm bringing in a team. Stay on the line?"

"Sure." Stiles nodded, even if his father couldn't see it. "ETA?"

"Fifteen minutes."

"Okay."

"Right, switching to my headset now." 'Staying on the line' was a precaution he and his father would take. Keep the call going, just in case something happened between ending the call (if he had ended it) and reaching Stiles' location. They went about their business, Stiles could hear him issuing orders and calling out his deputies and assigning them tasks. Likewise, his father could hear him doing whatever he was doing, which, in this case, was waiting.

"Yup." Stiles rubbed at his eyes. It had been a long night, and it was going to get longer. He'd have to file a report, make a statement, and there's no doubt his father was going to send him to the hospital to have him checked over. "Hey dad?" he pushed himself off the couch and headed to the kitchen, keeping the cursing man in his periphery.

"Yes, son?"

"Want coffee?"

.

A short Teen Wolf one. Just wanted some BAMF!Stiles but honestly, I was a little tired of supernatural plots when I thought of this. Hope it's okay. Hope he wasn't too out-of-character.

Thanks for reading, MCC.


End file.
